“Linda,” he said.
“She’s coming,” I said. “She’s going to meet us there. Come on.”
We were nearly at the end of the street. All that was left between us and the blue house was the stretch of scrubby land leading up to the alleys, but as we passed the church hall a policeman got out of his car and stood in the middle of the pavement, blocking our way.
“Everything all right?” he asked, in a voice that meant, “Everything is clearly not all right.”
“Yes,” I said. “We’re fine.”
“Where are you off to?” he asked. I had to think very quickly. We were right at the end of the road, and the only places the road led to were the alleys and church.
“Church,” I said.
“You’re on the wrong side of the road,” he said.
“I know,” I said. “We were just going to cross. You disturbed us.”
“Funny time for church,” he said. “Not Sunday.”
“Our mammy’s there,” I said. “She’s helping the vicar get ready for Sunday school. She told us to come when we finished playing in the playground.”
He nodded the way people nod when they are wondering whether to believe you. “You weren’t thinking of going up there, by any chance?” he said, pointing to the alleys.
“No,” I said. “We’re not allowed. It’s not safe.”
“That’s right,” he said. “Not safe at all.”
“No. Not at all,” I said. My belly clenched, and I wondered whether we could still get to the blue house before Linda finished counting. I wouldn’t need long. It didn’t take long. The policeman bent down to look at Pete. He had stopped crying and was staring.
“You all right, son?” he said. “What the tears for, eh?”
“That’s my brother,” I said. “He always cries. And he smells.”
The policeman laughed. “Your brother, is he? What did you say your name was?”
“Linda,” I said. “Linda Moore. This is Pete.”
He looked from me to Pete and pushed out his lips in a kissing shape. “You don’t look much the same, do you?”
I stepped toward him and cupped my hands around my mouth. He bent down slowly, so my hands could make a tunnel between us.
“He’s not my real brother,” I whispered. “My mammy and da adopted him. That’s why they love me more than him. But he’s not supposed to know.”
I stepped back and the policeman straightened. He nodded in a “Your secret is safe with me” sort of way, and smiled at Pete.
“All right, kids,” he said. “Well, I’ll take you across to your mammy now. Make sure you get there safe and sound.”
“What’s the time, sir?” I asked. I didn’t like having to call him sir, because I didn’t like him, but I thought it would help. He looked at his wristwatch.
“Just gone quarter past twelve,” he said.
“Mammy won’t be at church anymore,” I said.
“Oh?” he said. “Thought you said that’s where you were heading.”
“Yes. We were. But you’ve held us up,” I said. “She said if we didn’t finish in the playground before twelve we should go home. I just didn’t know the time. She’ll have our dinner waiting. We’d better hurry.”
I began to pull Pete back down the street, but the policeman took my shoulder. “Where is it you live?” he asked.
“Selton Street,” I said. “Number a hundred fifty-six. Right at the end.”
I could see him thinking about how long the streets were, and how if he came with us it would be uphill all the way back to his car. He was quite a tubby policeman. “All right,” he said. “Well, you go straight home now. But best not to be playing round here. Especially with a little one.”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll tell Mammy. Good-bye.”
I took Pete’s arm and we walked back toward the playground.
“Baby?” he said, holding out his hand.
“I haven’t got any,” I said.
We heard Linda crying before we turned the corner. She was standing next to the roundabout with her hands over her eyes, looking the same as Pete had looked when he had cried in the street. Donna and Betty were running through the bushes, calling, “Pete! Pete!” When we got to the gate Betty saw us, shouted, “Linda, there!” and Linda took her hands away from her face. She didn’t move. She looked like she was going to be sick. Pete pushed open the gate and ran toward her, and she picked him up and started crying all over again. Only someone really thick would do that. Thick to cry when you were pleased about something.
Donna thumped me on the arm. “Where did you take him?” she asked. “Linda was so worried she nearly died.”
“You don’t die from being worried,” I said.
“Well you do because Linda just nearly did,” she said. “Where did you go?”
“To find a good hiding place,” I said.
“But you went out of the playground,” said Betty. “That’s against the rules.”
“No it’s not,” I said. “I’m in charge of rules. I never made that a rule.”
“You’re in charge of everything,” said Donna.
“Yes. Obviously,” I said.
Linda had slithered down onto the ground with her face buried in Pete’s shoulder. She was sniffing and gulping and saying, “Pete, Pete, Pete.” She didn’t once look up to make sure I was safe too. She didn’t once say, “Chrissie, Chrissie, Chrissie.” I went over and stood right in front of her, and I was about to give her a little kick, just to remind her I was there, when she said, “Why—did—you—take—him?” Her voice sounded like that, like each word was a different sentence, because the crying meant she only had enough breath to say one word at a time. She sounded so stupid.
“We were doing hide-and-seek,” I said. “I was taking him to hide.”
“But—you—took—him—out—of—the—”
“We were just going to find a really good hiding place. That’s why I told you to count to a hundred. So we could find really good places.”
“But—we’re—not—meant—to—go—out—of—the—play—ground—in—hide—and—”
“You didn’t even want him anymore,” I said. She looked up
